Look, when you get to section three, just know I'm sorry. I'M SO SORRY.
Five Scenes They Left Out of The Great Game
1.
Lestrade knows that Sherlock Holmes has his own rules.
He knows that, but he still doesn't like this. He frowns at the forms on his desk. Nice little list of closed cases, good job Scotland Yard, Vermeer's a fake and the kid in the basement of the goddamn Yard itself is back with his poor sods of parents, and a good day to you, sir.
And he's wondering what's going to be next.
These past few years his neck and shoulders have started hurting, and the doctor he sees twice a year and no more often, thank you, says he ought to do some kind of physical therapy, which Lestrade has neither the time nor the money nor the inclination for. Right now, looking at their handiwork of the last five days, that dull-ache pain is creeping into his head and down his spine.
And he's wondering what's going to be next.
Lestrade lets out his breath and starts to write up his report.
He doesn't like this game.
2.
Mycroft knows something isn't right.
He's aware that people underestimate him - that is, after all, largely the point-but he spends as much time observing and collecting and interpreting data as Sherlock does, and he has his own cases to solve.
He knows, for example, that Sherlock is sending his little doctor to do his work for him, and he also knows that Sherlock is following the doctor in every moment of spare time he gets, in between these curious telephone calls. Mycroft isn't particularly interested in whatever nasty case Sherlock is involved in this time. As a rule, Sherlock's cases involve far too much running about and touching of unsanitary things, and Mycroft finds both of those activities highly distasteful.
But something is… not in its place, in this particular instance, and he's been sure of that for some time now. Whoever it is sending Sherlock these messages, it's someone very clever and very observant, with a great deal of power, and Mycroft doesn't like that.
He knows Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't know how to manage his intellect. Mycroft has all sorts of provisions for boredom; he has his work, his cameras, his neat little splices into all those telephone lines, his contacts for information, and, if nothing else, Anthea, who does provide the amusing little game of guessing at what identity she's adopted this week. But Sherlock just lives from case to case, getting by on the stimulation and starving when it wears off.
He wants someone to play with, and the sender of the pink mobile knows that. Sherlock is invested in the game; he probably has noticed how powerful his opponent is, but there's little question that that only makes it all more appealing. He'll just want to make sure they keep playing.
Mycroft sighs irritably and feels out the very tender spot in his gum with the tip of his tongue. He had thought that the missile defence plans case might have been interesting enough to content Sherlock for a little while, but evidently not.
He taps the intercom delicately to ring for Anthea. It's time to find a greater game for Sherlock. This one is weighted, and Mycroft is not at all pleased with the odds.
3.
Jim likes to watch Sherlock work.
He laughs to himself - the game would be almost sweet, just a little cleverness he thought up to make Sherlock happy, if he weren't such a terrible person, but he is, and that just makes it perfect. He loves knowing there's someone in this fucking world who's almost as smart as he is. Loves it. Fucking beautiful, like a kiss off your fingertips.
Well, Sherlock's not the only one, but he's the fun one. Mycroft Holmes, government creature that he is, he's clever too, but he just sits there in that office all day looking at video feeds and signing papers. Not like Sherlock, who dances around his dear wee flat in his dressing gown and shoots the walls with his little pet's revolver. Jim loves it, absolutely loves it, when Sherlock starts pulling wires out of Mycroft's surveillance cameras and never even sees his.
His fingers dance on his cock as he watches Sherlock bent over the microscope. So clever, look at him, an ascetic's dream. Barely eats, barely sleeps, never fucks, never wanks, just dashes around in his fever-white skin and thinks and skirts the edge of crazy as gorgeously as Jim's vaulted it. Fu-cking-love-ly.
And oh, heavens, look at the time, it's almost telephone-o-clock, where's the mobile - he snatches it up with his free hand, still wanking himself euphorically, and tells the old cunt to call. He'll have to kill her, of course; she's heard his voice, and, besides, Sherlock's starting to think he's too clever, won't do, time to shake him up a bit.
Boom.
Jim laughs again. Watch Sherlock, fuck himself, blow things up, just a little time to play -
It's a great game.
4.
Sherlock doesn't have nervous breakdowns.
Lying curled up on the couch and shaking uncontrollably is nothing new, it's called physical symptoms of withdrawal, for God's sake, doesn't matter how many patches he's got on his arm to-day (he should be thinking, he should be on the computer or the phone or into the bookcase, but that wonderful little mobile hasn't spat out a problem for him yet and his own brain is eating him).
John is making tea in the kitchen - such a sodding Englishman, just brew a cuppa and everything's fine, keep calm and carry on, damn him damn him damn him -
"Hey. You OK?"
"I'm fine," he says snappishly, wrapping his dressing gown tighter. Because he's fine. He's been nauseous ever since that wretched child on the mobile, but he's fine, he's just waiting for Moriarty, whose name is like the most splendid jewel in the sodding Empire.
Moriarty, who's been playing with him for ages now, ever since John moved in, just teasing him. It's a great game, but Sherlock is damned if he doesn't want more, he wants to be closer, he wants to see who the Queen is because he's sick of taking out Knights and Rooks.
The selfish bastard.
He sits up abruptly because his stomach is leaping out his mouth, and winds up on the floor with John's arm around his shoulders and a broken teacup on the floor near his hand.
"Oh, Christ!"
I'm fine, he wants to say, but he's too busy vomiting, which goes on for a good deal longer than he has any food in his stomach. When he's done, John squeezes his shoulders gently.
"Here, it's all right, I'll clean up."
Sherlock looks down at himself and says, "Damn," much more plaintively than he likes, because he's gotten it on his dressing gown and shirt, but John just says,
"Just stay there, I've got it," and fetches him a clean shirt and his coat, and practically rolls him into the chair in front of the telly. "Here, I'll clean up, just watch something," and turns it on.
John's good to him. Sherlock makes a mental note that maybe he should say something later, but the whole thing seems so fleeting already. So past. He barely notices that he's stopped shaking.
The game won't wait. If Moriarty doesn't make his sodding move soon, Sherlock's going to take a double turn.
5.
John has no idea what's happening.
Well, to be fair, he perfectly understands the bit where he's lying in a locker room wrapped up in explosives, being chatted to by a man he can't even see.
He even sort of understands why, because lately the why in his life has always been Sherlock Holmes, as in "Why am I running around London when I should be in bed?" or "Why is there human bone marrow in the marmalade dish?" or "Why don't I mind that I'm risking my life on a day-to-day basis?"
The part he's vague on is what Moriarty wants.
"Oh, he just loves you. It's going to be so clever, such a pretty little performance. What do you want to say? You should think about it. Oh, John, just imagine what we can do with your skills. We could have a little… operation. Something naughty."
John is used to the idea that hostages mean something. People take hostages when they need something, when they want something, and they're running out of options. Hostages mean - international incidents, or critical standoffs, or war. But all Moriarty seems to want is to play with Sherlock. Like it's some kind of great game or something and he's come up with a clever move.
John's his clever move.
"Feel free to tell me any of your ideas. I mean, I won't use them, but you can tell me. It'll be more fun that way. Sherlock's going to love this part. This is the best part. You'll have to pro-mise to look at his face."
He tries to picture Sherlock's face, but the only thing that comes to mind is how four hours earlier he was helping Sherlock wash up and cleaning his vomit off the floor (is that going to be the last important thing he ever does? Jesus Christ).
At least it wasn't Harry's. He's done that too.
He starts laughing.
It's just a stupid game.